Danielle Pafunda is one of my all time favorite poets and she just read and complimented one of my poems. I am buzzing with joy. Seriously starstruck.
your dream was trying to convey you getting doused with semen. vomit all over you was a metaphor
Only you would see vomit as a metaphor for semen. Haha. I should write a poem about that. I never showed you this one, which you inspired:
Burlesque Butcher Shop
Heard the slit slit horror story
about the tear in her tenderloin,
couldn’t stomach it.
There’s a nasty rumor of a bourbon roasted
strip-tease, bacon strip baring slip-up.
Don’t swallow that fat farce.
It’s a pig fib. I keep my combo covered.
Will the meat monster
pork a porker or does it want McRibs?
There’s another one about a maggot melt,
but that could be as cultural as canning
Charleston in late January feels like
the Northeast back in June.
Atmospheric reverb melts
muscles and all chords pull my hips.
My torso jumps to “Jeff Guitar.”
I’m all black lace and fringe and velvet and grunge.
The band is concentrated tongues,
black light lit veins, the image of E.T. hugging Bin Laden,
and double M’s writhing to form an eight-armed Demi-God.
This van is not a rental. Get on the roof. Screw Triangle.
Jameson? Hit this? Bubblegum? Why, yes, and thank you kindly.
Piscean intuition and watercourse travel stories (brooks and glens.)
“Oh damn girls, dry laughter, sip-a-da-ba-ba, glamour shots.
It’s all happening. Like when camp kids meet up after summer’s
over. Our bonfire was floral flavored smoke and “That Other Shit”
became the closest thing to a camp song. I was there in a backyard
in Philly. I was there. When the backseat van-fort burned down
with the roof rules, I received indemnities. Not a casualty
of summer secession, but an interim citizen. This is the public
spirit of a novel nation-state. I am not a tenant of the comatose
countryside. I am not an ex-ally and am more than an ally’s ex.
All the highways and the venues and the pit stops
mapped this. The rapture never went down. This is
My thoughts are cross dressers
drinking five dollar bottles of wine
while performing a maladroit square dance
in a moon bounce. When they ricochet into speech
they make no more sense than acid tubas,
but sound just as lovely. Pretty little fools that they are,
they apply too much glitter and lopsided lashes
to look more like basic babes. I’d like to eat them
like pulp fiction candy, but that craving is biological.
They are my own organic mucous taffy.
To the average consumer they’re probably
comparable to those suckers encased with crickets
and scorpions. I can’t really think of any other product
that is all at once so unappealing, intriguing,
sugary, creepy, and comical. See what I mean now?
My thoughts are so absurd they think they are
Notes on Brooklyn
Workshopped this today. Didn’t get written peer notes back, but the repeated response was, ”This didn’t make sense to me.” Really? Really? The one thing I ws with a narrative arc and everyone’s lost now? Is it truly that cryptic? What all should I explain? What does make sense?
Notes on Brooklyn